She flipped through the book until she came to a page of tiny writing, the letters jammed close together. Maeve pulled the book toward her, scanning the words.
“This is a diary entry from one of the Soho coven who used to entertain army officers during World War II. During the Blitz, the coven would hide in a certain exclusive air raid shelter – imagine the scene, these whores trapped underground for hours and sometimes days with some of the top minds in England. The coven became a repository of all sorts of useful knowledge about the war effort.
“Eliza Flaharty was one of those whores. She was a songstress – she used to entertain the soldiers with cabaret-style performances at the house. Sometimes she’d be invited into the officer’s barracks for private entertainment. As her lover held her in his arms, she asked him to tell her a story. He wanted to be a writer when he left the war, and so he was always inventing tragic and beautiful tales. This tale was about an officer in the British Army who was a double agent. He was loyal to Germany, but in his guise he met and fell in love with a beautiful English woman. Torn between the two worlds, he didn’t know what to do. The idea turned itself over and over in Eliza’s head, and she wrote a song about the officer’s divided loyalty. The problem was, the song was so haunting, so evocative, that fear spread through the regiment there was a double agent. They hanged Eliza’s boy for a crime he never committed – a crime that was entirely imagined – all based on the power of belief.”
“That’s a horrible story!” Maeve slid the book back across the table.
“This horrible story tells us one key thing, that belief is a powerful form of magic that can make its own truth. It has the power to invert the world as we know it – fictions become fact, and facts a fiction. When the fae come, the world will see their own dead walking the earth. They will know that magic is real and deadly and powerful. And to whom will they turn to save them?”
“Witches,” Rowan whispered.
“Exactly.” Clara jabbed the book triumphantly. “Their belief in us is all we need to make fiction a fact, to bring about the result we desire – the banishing of the Slaugh and the return of the fae to their realm. We have to make their belief in witches powerful enough that it will create the result we desire. Flynn has the right idea – witches exist now only in pop culture, as fragments of mythology turned into Halloween candy. We can make them real again through art.”
I leaned forward, my chest tightening. Who knew art had such fierce power?
And then Moira’s face flashed in front of my eyes, and I realized I’d known all along.
“There are many artists in the covens, as well as artists like my son here who aren’t witches but have a connection to our cause. If we got them to flood the market with art that challenged and confronted, art that spoke of the destructive power of witchcraft, art that couldn’t be explained away, then we will be able to create and channel that belief.” Clara touched her son’s arm. “Ryan here has just finished a beautiful painting about the witches of Crookshollow. He will release it into the market. It might draw some attention to what’s going on in the village.”
Might draw some attention? If a new Raynard painting hit the market it would send the entire art world on a tear. And if the subject made the press look at witches in Crookshollow…
They’d look at my statue. A statue that mysteriously appeared overnight, and couldn’t be moved or destroyed. A statue that hummed with a mysterious power…
I glanced over at Maeve. The muscles in her face twitched as she worked through Clara’s words. She doesn’t believe Clara. It’s art, not science. It’s too irrational, too open to chance. It’s—
“This is it,” she breathed. “This is the weapon we have. This is how we can stop the Slaugh.”
21
MAEVE
“I need the bathroom!” I yelled over the noise of the welder.
“What?” Flynn yelled back.
“Bathroom!” I threw down the box of screws I’d been holding for Corbin and raced off toward the house.
Ever since Clara had come knocking with her book and her famous artist son, we’d all moved into Flynn’s studio. He sat in a chair in the middle of his piles of junk, directing us to drag out bits of scrap from his collection and cut them up and solder or screw them together. Occasionally, Ryan Raynard would pipe up with a suggestion, and Flynn’s face would go as red as his hair and he’d stammer a bit and change things to Ryan’s way.
Even Clara and Aline were pitching in, although their contribution was mostly running back and forth from the kitchen with endless cups of tea. Between all of us, the statue was taking shape in record time – a male companion to Flynn’s female witch, with a wild mane of wire-brush hair. He cast both his arms wide, an arc of lightning surging between the hands. I had the idea of making the statue into a Tesla coil so the lightning would be real, but Corbin overruled the idea in the interest of public safety.
“Spoilsport,” Flynn muttered. I had to agree.
I wiped my greasy hands on my jeans before pulling open the kitchen door. It was fun, getting all dirty with the guys. Arthur tossed around the heavy scrap metal like it was made of paper. Flynn loved bossing everyone around for once, and he and Blake kept us all laughing with their antics. Shy Rowan contributed a couple of really creative ideas, and of course Corbin was good at making everyone work together.
Once this statue was finished, we’d sneak out and plant it somewhere else in the village. Flynn thought we might even be able to get a third one up before Ryan released his painting and the press went crazy.
We spoke to Gwen at the Avebury coven earlier this afternoon. She had all her artists working on another piece. “I’m astounded we’d never thought of this before,” she said. “There are many documented instances where belief magic has been used effectively. Combining it with art objects to store that magic makes perfect sense.”
“Do you think it will be enough to stop the Slaugh?” I said.
“And then some!”
I’d also packaged up the knife Daigh had used along with a sample of my own blood, and typed up a letter to send off to a DNA testing lab I found on the internet. I explained the sample was green because of a rare genetic condition, and hoped that would be enough to encourage them to go forward with the test without any further questions. Corbin wrote out a check for the lab fee from the Briarwood fund we all shared for expenses. According to the lab website, we’d get a result back in three to five business days.
Then we’ll find out just how related Daigh and I really are.
In the bathroom, I smiled at my reflection as I washed my hands. My dark roots had started to grow back into my bangs, and my short pixie hair now completely covered my ears. Bits stuck out at all angles, streaked with dust and grease from the shed. A black stain smudged my cheek.
I was a completely different person to the girl who’d first set foot in this castle a month ago. Was it really only a month? It felt like so much longer. The bond I shared with the guys felt like it was forged decades ago. In a way, it was. I carried pieces of them around inside of me, and they each held a piece of me.
I’d fallen apart in this castle. I’d come undone after the death of my parents. I’d discovered a side of myself I’d never even imagined, and I’d met and fallen in love with not one, but five incredible men. The girl in the mirror wasn’t someone old Maeve recognized – she was entirely new – a quantum leap in Maeve-ness.
I smiled despite myself. Maybe Aline’s ritual had a bigger impact on me than I thought. Maybe it was good for all of us to cleanse away the guilt of the past.
Maeve Crawford was dead and buried. Maeve Moore – she was ready to kick some serious fae ass.
I rubbed at the grease smudge on my cheek, but that only smeared it further across my skin. I scrubbed it with soap and water.
The mirror fogged up. I couldn’t see. Odd. I’d only been running the hot water for a few minutes. I rubbed at the fog, but it didn’t clear.
A
pair of crystalline eyes emerged from the fog, followed by two long, full lips leering at me out of the mirror. I screamed and leaped back.
“Hello, daughter,” a dark, familiar voice echoed through the bathroom.
I pressed my back against the shower wall. My heart leapt into my throat as the features coalesced into a face. Daigh stared back at me, his lips curling into his usual expression of carefree nonchalance.
“You can’t do this,” I said, fighting to get my pattering heart under control. “You can’t be inside the castle like this.”
“Can’t I?” he smirked. “I spent months within those walls when I was inside that insufferable painter. Do you not think I made sure there was a way I could get back in this castle if I needed to?”
“Nope. I don’t believe for a second you were that clever.”
Daigh laughed. “You got me, daughter. I am, of course, not really here. I used a variation on the spell your enchanting mother used to call me, only this time I sought you out. I thought we could have a little heart-to-heart without the others around.”
“A heart-to-heart is what you do with people you care about, and I don’t care about you. I sent away the DNA sample this morning. In only a few days you’ll see how superficial our connection really is.”
He let that one slide. “You made me an interesting offer yesterday.”
“Which you rejected.”
“I did. But maybe I’m reconsidering.”
I tilted my head to the side. “I believe your words were that you’d rather die than make an alliance with us witches.”
“That was before Liah became a problem. While I was speaking with you, Liah spied on our conversation. She’s gone to one of our gracious hosts and told them I was thinking of selling them out to the humans. The underworld is in uproar. My fae are no longer listening to me. I’m in hiding lest a demon strike me down. Our hosts are considering giving Liah control of the Slaugh if I can’t control the fae. Liah’s building a resistance – soon she’ll be too strong for me to oppose. I’d rather give up the earth than live under her reign.”
“Then accept my proposal. Call off the Slaugh. Go back on the deal. Bring the fae to earth to live in the wild places.”
He shook his head. “I wish I could, but if I bring this to the fae now, they will not accept it. They will see me as weak, trying to save my family at their expense. It will send them all to Liah. If she controls the Slaugh, they have no reason to follow me.”
“You have another idea, I’m guessing?”
Daigh nodded. “Liah needs to fail first. My fae need to know that the world she envisions can never be. I need the fae to see the vision you and Blake have seen – of the world broken and burning from this ‘nuclear’ weapon. Only when they realize there is no hope with her will they accept the offer you propose.”
“And how do you plan to show them our vision? You yourself haven’t even seen it. You only know about it because Blake told you.”
“You will show them, dreamwalker. You and Blake.”
“If you think I’m setting foot down in wherever in the cosmos you’re mirroring in from, you can think again,” I warned. The words ‘hell no’ danced on my tongue, but they seemed a little on-the-nose, so I held back.
“We will come to you. I can make that happen. I will bring a few of my most trusted and loyal fae. I know you and Blake can communicate through your dreams. You will draw my fae into the dream, show them the truth of it, of what will happen. They need to feel their lungs closing over and the ghosts of the trees clutching at a dying world.”
“When do you want to do this thing?”
“As soon as possible. I believe I can be ready at midnight tonight. We’ll meet you beside the sidhe.”
“Midnight, of course. How mystical.” I yawned in the mirror. “I’m never going to get a decent night’s sleep. Sure, let me talk to the guys and we’ll—”
Daigh frowned. “It must only be you and Blake.”
“Why?”
“Because if my fae see the Briarwood coven closing in around them, they’ll suspect a trap.”
“For your most loyal fae, they’re awfully untrusting.”
“They are fae. You and Blake must come alone.”
“You know the guys aren’t going to let us do that. They’ll be hiding in the forest, watching. That’s the best I can do.”
Daigh sighed. “You drive a hard bargain, daughter. Fine. They will hide, but if they are seen, this will not work.”
“I’ll tell them to be extra careful. What happens once we’ve convinced these fae of the truth of the vision?”
“They will spread the word amongst the rest of our kin. Once the fae have returned to my power and Liah has been dealt with, I will call off the Slaugh.”
“Let me get this straight – Blake and I take a huge fucking risk by stepping outside the protective boundaries of Briarwood to show your fae this vision, and the only guarantee we’ve got that it’s even going to stop the Slaugh is your word?”
“Why do you care? If The Slaugh comes, the humans detonate this nuclear weapon.” Daigh steepled long fingers against his chin. “Problem solved.”
“War against the Slaugh means humans die too. We can’t breathe in that poison atmosphere or live without nutrients any more than you can. It’s mutually assured destruction, not the best case scenario.”
“Then you’ll help me?”
I thought of Flynn’s statue drawing power from the village’s hatred of us, and the other artworks that would soon be joining it. If Daigh is lying, then we still have a way of stopping the Slaugh and sending the fae back to their realm. But if he’s telling the truth, then we might be able to end the feud between fae and human once and for all. “We’re helping each other. If that makes you uncomfortable—”
Something crunched out the window.
I spun around. What was that? Because this was the ground-floor bathroom and the window looked into the inner courtyard, the glass was frosted. A shape moved in the corner of the frame, but I couldn’t make out what it was.
I raced to the window and flung it open, squinting into the courtyard and straining my ears for a sound. I thought I heard something scrape against stone, but no other sound followed it. It’s probably Obelix, chasing some small defenseless furry creature.
I turned back to the mirror, but Daigh was no longer visible. “Hey, come back!” I pounded against the glass, but he didn’t show his face.
Another scraping sound outside. Okay, that definitely wasn’t a cat.
I ran to the window again, shoving my shoulders through and leaning right out so I could see around the edge of the inner gate. I could just make out a long shadow retreating down the drive. I shoved the window open further. “Hey, who is that?”
The shadow didn’t answer. It sped up, disappearing around the corner of the drive. I flung the bathroom door open and ran through the kitchen, shoving my head out the kitchen door. “Guys, come quick!”
Hopefully they heard me over all the banging and soldering.
I didn’t have time to find out. I tore back through the house, flung the front door open and raced across the courtyard. As I rounded the first corner of the drive, my chest heaving, I caught a glimpse of a car parked over the front of the drive. Someone – the shadow, I guessed – yanked the passenger side door open and climbed in. The tires squealed as the car sped off, heading back down the road toward Crookshollow.
“Bloody hell, Maeve.” Arthur puffed as he came up next to me, his sword clattering against his leg. “You gave us all a heart attack. We thought the fae had got you.”
“Someone was in the courtyard,” I said.
“Who?” Corbin appeared on the other side of me, his expression grave, his hands clenched into fists.
“I didn’t see, but they made a run for it as soon as I saw them. They had a car waiting at the bottom of the drive.”
“Maeve, look.”
We turned around. Flynn stood under the portcullis at t
he entrance to the inner courtyard. He pointed a shaking finger at the high wooden door. A message had been scrawled across it in red.
DIE, WITCHES.
22
MAEVE
“The fuck?” Arthur growled, touching the sword at his side. He must’ve grabbed it on his way out to see what I was yelling about. Thank god… thank Athena, Arthur was never too far from a sword.
“How did the fae get behind the wards?” Aline asked.
“It’s not fae,” I whispered, my stomach clenching as understanding dawned. “It’s the villagers.”
“How do you know if you didn’t get a proper look at them?”
“They wouldn’t have come here by car if they were fae.”
“It could have been a human compelled by the fae,” Blake pointed out. “Like Robert, or Dora.”
Clara shook her head. “The fae believe they’ve already won. They don’t need to skulk around the castle hoping to scare us. But angry villagers who think we’re raising the dead would definitely do this.”
Rowan touched his finger to the message and sniffed. “This isn’t paint,” he whispered. “It’s blood.”
“A warning.” Corbin glanced around us.
“But whose blood is it?” I whispered.
I dug my phone out of my pocket, my heart beating. If they’ve got to Kelly, I’ll never forgive myself. As I dialed Jane’s number, I noticed Corbin punching something in to his phone.
Jane picked up on the second ring.
“Jane. Thank Athena, you’re okay. Is Kelly there?”
Jane’s voice was stern. “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“But she’s there? No one hurt her?”
The Castle of Wind and Whispers Page 16